


In Your Head | Regulus Black

by malf0y101



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Multi, Other, Post-Marauders Era (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:42:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27599752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malf0y101/pseuds/malf0y101
Summary: "It's like his lungs have been revoked of all oxygen, and the rapid pressure change when he transcends back into this world-wherever or whatever it is-amplifies the throbbing tenfold. But at the same time, he loves every moment he spends out there in that abstract, supernatural world because, while his head is submerged under the clear water, he can see Amelia. And that's all he needs to continue to put himself through the torturous process-he would die over and over again if it meant continuing to see her."Regulus Black is dead, leaving his lover, Amelia Hart, struck with grief during her last year at Hogwarts. But when she starts to hear his voice speak to her in her head, she learns the truth about his relationship with the Dark Lord and what she has to do to help stop him.THIS BOOK IS ON HIATUS.
Relationships: Regulus Black & Black Family, Regulus Black & Kreacher, Regulus Black & Sirius Black, Regulus Black/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

Sometimes, Amelia thinks she can still hear him.

His gentle, velvety voice, climbing up her neck and muttering wonderful words in her ear, coupled with delicate kisses behind her lobe and around her collar. She can hear it. The soft breaths, the little whimpers, even the pop of his lips when he would suck on her skin.

She can smell him, feel him, even taste him. She will be drinking her morning tea, blended with milk and a dash of sugar, and instantly her brew will taste of nothing but him.

And she can't help but cry. Cry because he is gone. Cry because he will never come back. Cry because she is haunted by him and his looming presence. His spirit teases her—it simultaneously keeps her sensible yet drives her insane. She knows it is a figment of her wild imagination combined with the utter depression she suffers from losing him. The conflicting feelings coalesce and manifest themselves into this unexplainable phenomenon. The voice in the back of her head echoes and bounces off of every inch of her skull. It reverberates within her; only she can hear it.

Not it— _him._ She hears _him._ She can't explain it, but she very clearly perceives his voice.

Impossible. It's simply unfeasible. It must be her imagination. Her vivid, colorful mind. It is purposely playing tricks on her.

_It's not, darling. I'm here._

Amelia rattles in her bed, shooting up and panting heavily. She grips the silk green covers over her body, trying to slow the relentless shaking of her hands. The dorm room is dark, the only source of light coming from the emerald glow of the Black Lake, observed through the stained-glass windows flagging each side of her four-post bed. She surveys the room; the other girls are sleeping soundly.

_Can't sleep?_

Her breath hitches in her throat. Attempting to hold back tears, Amelia bites down on her lower lip and slowly shakes her head.

"No," she whispers in response.

She runs her fingers through her chestnut hair, tangled and frizzy from tossing back and forth on her pillow. Her head is pounding as she tries to make sense of the situation.

She hears him. That is clearly his voice.

_Yes, it is. You can hear me._

Her lips tremble as she closes her eyes, squeezing the tears out and onto her flushed cheeks. The salty water cools them for a moment, then she is back to feeling incredible amounts of warmth surge through her body.

"What are you doing here?" she barely mutters, cautious not to wake any of the other girls whom she shares the room with. It's more of a breath, with mumbled vowels and consonants blending in a mist of words.

He can hear her nonetheless.

_I told you I'd never leave you._

"But... you're dead."

Her eyes dart around the room; diagonally to her right, her best friend Florence snores away in a deep slumber. The other two girls—Molly straight across from her, and Emma diagonally to her left—rest in the same manner. Heads sucked into their pillows, low breaths lifting their sheets in rhythmic motions, and occasional shifts in positions.

"Don't do this to me, Regulus..."

_Do what?_

"Haunt me."

Silence.

_I'm not haunting you._

"You will..." she whimpers. "It's only a matter of time. I'll go crazy if you keep talking to me."

_I can't leave you alone._

"Why not?" Amelia croaks. She raises her fingers to her lips and holds her breath, praying that her sound was not loud enough to wake up the others. They remain steadfast in their sleep, not moving an inch. "Please go," she asks quietly, the tears stinging her eyes as she attempts with all her strength to hold them in. 

_It's... complicated. I can't just go away._

"So you'll torture me instead?"

_That's not what this is, darling._

Amelia almost breaks down. She is confused beyond belief, unsure how it is possible that she can hear Regulus' voice in her head.

She returns to the idea that this is all a figment of her imagination.

_Millie, it's not your imagination._

"Regulus, how is this possible?" she asks, her voice carrying itself in the quiet air of the dorm room. She scours her brain for any explanation, any insight into how he can possibly be speaking to her. But this breaks the laws of physics, the natural workings of the world, even the realms of magic itself—doesn't it?

Her heart aches for him. He's practically all over her again, nestled in her arms and giggling away at her jokes, yet she can't see his body. Can't reach out and touch him. Can't caress his fluffy hair, stare into his beaming eyes, trace the outline of his chiseled jaw. Regulus lives in her head—so close yet so far.

_It will all become clear soon._

She sighs. What else can she do at this point?

_Nothing. You can't do anything. You just need to listen to me. I need your help._

"Can you not tell me anything else?" she inquires.

_It will come in due time. I promise._

"Yes, well, you promised a lot of things," she remarks under her breath.

Silence. She waits several seconds, yearning to hear his voice. But he doesn't come back.

She regrets saying it because now, he's gone.

"Regulus... are you still there?"

No answer.

"Regulus... please... please come back..."

Complete silence.

Feeling like her heart has been ripped out from her chest and stomped on thousands of times, Amelia drops her limp body back onto her bed. She cries, the pain of being alone weighing heavily on her chest, head, legs. She feels like she's been pulled under a riptide and cannot find her way out of the depths of the murky waters. It's suffocating her, killing her. She wants nothing more than to scream his name.

"Please come back," she whispers one last time, desperation staining her cry.

But as quickly as he comes into her head, he leaves her. Lonely. Empty. Purposeless.

As the tears roll from her eyes and spill onto her pillow, Amelia dozes off, back into the effortless slumber she was in minutes before Regulus spoke to her and interrupted her dreams.

The dreams of him and her, racing through wide, green fields, poppies and daisies scattered across every inch of the terrain. Hands clasped tightly, smiles as wide as the endless sky. Hiding from the evils of the world that attempt to stain them. They live together and spend their days enjoying picnics in the grass, painting bright and colorful landscapes, embracing one another on a pear-shaded blanket—not vibrant enough to blend in with the emerald grass but still a close enough hue where they felt like they were floating on the thistles, engulfed in the coarse yet deliciously smelling earth.

And Regulus would say to her how much he adores her. How her soft features make him weak. How he would do anything to protect her, make her feel more loved than any being on this earth.

And Amelia's smile would be so bright that it would blind the sun, her plush lips like a gate, unbolting and opening to expose the wondrous shape her mouth makes when she is happy.

This is what she dreamed about right before Regulus' voice spoke to her.

And this is what she prays she returns to as she falls asleep once again.

-

Regulus lifts his head out of the water, gasping for air as his dark, wet curls stick to his flustered face. He stumbles backwards, slipping on the shale rocks and losing his balance, trying desperately to recompose his staggered breathing. He hits the ground, his hand slicing against the corner of a rock. Wincing in pain, he inspects the flow of crimson blood trailing down his palm and towards his wrist; but as quickly as the cut arises, it goes away. Vanishes into thin air like it never existed in the first place.

He hates the feeling of returning from that realm. It's like he's been shot out of a black hole. The pounding pressure in his head when he returns is unbearable. It's like his lungs have been revoked of all oxygen, and the rapid pressure change when he transcends back into this world—wherever or whatever it is—amplifies the throbbing tenfold. But at the same time, he loves every moment he spends out there in that abstract, supernatural world because, while his head is submerged under the clear water, he can see Amelia. And that's all he needs to continue to put himself through the torturous process—he would die over and over again if it meant continuing to see her.

Regulus inspects his surroundings. They have not changed. It is pitch black, the only light coming from the glow of the fountain which he uses to communicate with Amelia. The faint sound of flowing water patters against the stone fountain and drips into the basin. It looks almost like a Pensieve, but much larger, and with a sizable spout blooming in the center that pushes out a stream of water.

And then, from behind the fountain emerges that same ethereal figure. She has coiled brown hair that rests on her shoulders, the ringlets perfectly situated atop one another. Her bronze skin glows against the white dress she wears—sheer long sleeves connect with the satin body of the dress, and it falls serenely on her tall body. With her kind hazel eyes, she gazes at Regulus, smiles, and approaches him reclined on the ground, his knees bent and arms supporting his upper body. He watches her, studies her slow and gentle movements as she bends down and places a hand on his knee.

"Why couldn't I have stayed longer?" Regulus asks, his voice croaking with pain and sorrow.

"You know the rules, dear," she says, her words like honey. "If you're there too long, you'll be cast away from this world. And I still need your help."

Regulus shakes his head, tears swelling in his eyes. "But I needed to speak to her more. She needed me."

Her hand lowers to graze his; intertwining her fingers in his, she carefully helps him to his feet. She looks at Regulus with apologetic eyes. "You cannot expend all your energy in one session. Relax, dear boy, our work is only beginning."

Indignantly, Regulus nods. He hates the fact that his interactions with Amelia are so brief. He wishes he could drown all over again, but this time in the fountain. Maybe if he swam deep enough, he could reach her again on the other side. If he held his breath long enough, he could fill his lungs with her sweet breath on his lips upon arrival. If he cast an object of his into the water and let it drown in its depths, it could turn up in her world, and upon discovering the object, she would immediately recognize his urgency to be with her again. Why couldn't the magic work that way?

Regulus looks up at the woman, his doe-eyed irises connecting with her wise ones.

"What happens once our work is completed?" he asks, a sliver of fear lodged in the tone of his question.

"I think you know the answer, dear," she responds.

Regulus frowns and begrudgingly nods, unwilling to truly accept his fate. It is unfair, cruel, and torturous. Amelia is dangled on a thread right in front of him, and no matter how far Regulus stretches his arm, no matter how loud he calls her name, no matter how desperate he is to find his way back to her, it is impossible. He only has these small moments. And he can only begin to imagine the way it must feel for her.

He teeters on the threshold of life and death, forced to remain in this limbo until their work is done. And then, rather than return to Amelia once the work is complete, he will meet his fateful ending:

"You die, Regulus."


	2. Chapter 2

**A few months earlier.**

_"Regulus..."_

_"Please don't look at me like that, Millie."_

_Amelia can't help herself. She stares at the black ink on Regulus' left arm. The ink that represents everything she has tried to escape. The mark that launched the countless rifts and eventual breakdown between her and her family. The manifestation of all things wrong with the Wizarding World._

_And it is on Regulus' arm. He is branded with the worst possible symbol: the skull and the serpent. It's like a Shakespearean tragedy written right on his arm. It's fixed into his skin forever._

_Regulus reaches out to comfort Amelia, but she recoils in disgust, crossing her arms and cringing at his advancement; no matter how loving his intentions are, Amelia cannot bring herself to allow him to caress her. Not with that thing displayed on his arm, as a blatant and unquestionable testament to his allegiance to dark magic and a populist psychopath._

_"How could you do this?" she asks, balancing between anger in her gritted teeth and sadness in her tear-stained irises. "Are you not ashamed of yourself?"_

_Regulus jabs the inside of his cheek with his tongue, shaking his head as if there is something Amelia is missing, as if there is an obvious reason for his immoral decision. But everything is quite clear to Amelia—Regulus chose the mark over her. He chose to pursue this life; Amelia did everything she could to convince him otherwise. Evidently, his loyalties lie elsewhere._

_"Things are complicated," Regulus explains in a calm voice. "My family expected this of me. And I didn't really have a choice, after what happened with Sirius—"_

_"Regulus, you can't keep bringing him up as justification for blindly following your family's antiquated ideologies!" Amelia interrupts, rolling her eyes and feeling terribly drained from having this same conversation time and time again, like she's a broken record falling on deaf ears. Double the obstacles._

_"Like hell I can't!" Regulus exclaims, raising his voice slightly. "Do you know how hard it is to constantly hear how much my parents hate him? Their own son? How many times they threaten to disown me and take everything away from me if I resist this path? I didn't have a choice, Millie."_

_"No! You did have a choice! This was your decision!" Amelia shouts in retaliation, throwing her arms in the air with immense frustration and disappointment. "It doesn't matter what Sirius did, or what your cousin Andromeda did, or what your parents expect of you. For Salazar's sake, Regulus, this was all your doing."_

_Regulus flares his nostrils and forcefully lowers his sleeve, rebuttoning the cuff of his white dress shirt in irritation. "I should've never showed you," he mumbles, shaking his head and staring at the floor. Amelia scoffs, bewildered at his callous and heartless attitude._

_"Who even are you?" she whispers._

_Regulus doesn't answer. He simply stares at the dark, wooden floors of the dorm room._

_The silence that follows is deafening; no words are exchanged, but the tension present in the few feet of air between them is strong enough to cut through steel. The low rumbles of the Black Lake echo in the dorm room, and the dim emerald light shining through the stained-glass windows reflects upon Regulus' guilty face. And although those jade eyes are beautiful beyond comprehension and are usually quite successful in hypnotizing her with his love, compelling her to forgive him for whatever he might have done, Amelia cannot bring herself to look into them in this moment._

_Because Regulus' love is now tainted with his misguided and iniquitous decision._

-

"Bloody hell, Amelia, you're going to get a fucking sugar rush with all that jam on your toast!"

Unaware that she has piled several scoops of strawberry jam onto her buttered toast, Amelia slowly flutters her heavy and puffy eyes open to see Florence sitting opposite of her at the dining table, staring at her with furrowed eyebrows and a befuddled expression. Among her, the Slytherins straddle the dining benches, munch on their decadent English breakfasts, and exchange loud conversations with one another, laughing and shouting about Merlin knows what this early in the morning.

Amelia gazes down at her toast, completely slathered with the red jam; it trickles off the sides of the bread and onto her fingers. She drops the toast on the bronze plate in front of her, licking and sucking the jam off of her fingers as she glances around the table, wondering if anyone else noticed her little dissociative episode.

Molly and Emily are deep in conversation beside her—something about whether or not Callum Brown is single. They bicker over him, and for good reason; Callum is, without competition, the most gorgeous Slytherin boy in Amelia's year. Tall, dark, and handsome. Any girl would be lucky to have him. But no matter how attractive he is, Amelia cannot seem to shake the one boy she truly loves from her mind. Especially since he has somehow lodged himself in there, even in his death.

Embarrassed, Amelia reaches for her napkin and wipes the remaining saliva and jam off of her hand. She subsequently shoves her hands into her lap, burying them between the center slit of her robe. Trying to avoid confrontation with Florence, who is always looking for a rift, Amelia bites her lower lip, hoping that—maybe this time—Florence will just drop the subject. Won't call to attention her clear and unmistakable moment of detachment from reality.

She casts this hope with a broken net. And smart, clever Florence doesn't fall for the bait.

"What's wrong with you, Amelia?" Florence asks, leaning over the table and letting her long, auburn hair rest against the wood. "You've been jumpy ever since you got out of bed."

"I'm fine," Amelia responds quickly.

A lie.

Florence can read her like a book. She's always been able to; she harbors this unexplainable aptitude of perception, gifted with the ability to see through every little lie that comes out of Amelia's mouth.

"Lies. Something is bothering you," she responds, raising her eyebrows in suspicion. Florence leans forward a little bit more, lowering her voice into a whisper. "Are you worried about... you know..." Florence points to her left forearm, a smirk plastered on her face.

Before anyone else can see Florence's reckless motion, Amelia swats Florence's arm off the table. The rapid motion garners the attention of several students around her, but Amelia is quick to brush off the outburst, glaring at the nosy students, saying _mind your own fucking business_ with her loud eyes.

She detests the looks she constantly receives from her fellow students, especially with the recent news of Regulus' death. She hates being pitied. And it's always this one bloody look: a frown, creased eyebrows, flared nostrils, and a single twinkle in one or both of their sorry eyes.

It's difficult to decipher whether people feel poorly for her because her boyfriend simply died, or because he died a Death Eater. The circumstances of his death are still unknown, but Amelia is poised to get to the bottom of it, dedicated to uncovering why he felt so compelled to leave that one day. What drove him to abandon her when she needed him most. She'll force it out of that voice in her head in whatever way possible.

Maybe if he never left, he'd still be here.

Florence is taken aback by Amelia's physical response to her question, slowly removing her arms from the table and adjusting her posture to sit up perfectly straight. Typical Florence—she lives for the manners of high society and classy dispositions. Every hair on her head is perfectly straightened, just like her insides. Not one thing out of place—especially her blood. She relishes in her pureblood status.

"Just don't bring it up, Florence," Amelia whispers stoically.

Crossing her arms over her chest, Florence exhales loudly and shakes her head, guiding her hair to rest behind her shoulders. "Well if it's not... _that_... then what is it?"

Amelia purses her lips, debating in her head whether it is smart to tell Florence about Regulus' voice in her head. She isn't even sure how to make sense of the situation herself. Regulus had barely explained anything to her in the limited time frame they spoke last night. She wanted to know more—she needed to understand why he was there, in the back of her mind, communicating with her. Not only why, but how.

"Come on, Amelia," Florence pushes. "I know there's something wrong with you. You can't hide anything from me."

"Wrong with me?" Amelia repeats, cocking an eyebrow and taking clear offense to Florence's flawed phrasing.

Florence sighs and rolls her eyes. "Not _wrong_ with you. But you can't deny that there is something bothering you."

No, she can't deny it.

But she couldn't tell Florence just yet. She needed to anticipate her reaction so that she could counter with her own points. Florence is an enigma—far too capricious, making her sometimes a rather judgmental friend, often reverting any attention right back to herself.

But then there were those moments when Amelia needed Florence most, and she had always been there. Loyalty meant everything to Florence—loyalty to her family, friends, and her values.

Amelia would've admired her more if those values were not so misguided, but Florence was blinded by her parents' principles. And as much as Amelia tried to sway Florence to see the world through a more compassionate lens, she wouldn't budge. Inheriting everything her family had in store for her seemed to be more important than being on the right side of history. On the right side of a bloody civil war.

But the last thing Amelia needed was to be alone, especially now. And Florence was there for her. So, for the time being, she would suffer through her pureblood rants, her imprudent episodes of verbal abuse against muggle-born students, and her relentless taunts about living in a newly purified world.

Amelia wasn't strong enough to stand up to Florence. Not yet. She just needed a little time to recover. She needed to hold together this façade just a little longer.

"It's just been difficult, dealing with his death," Amelia responds, anticipating Florence's reaction as she finishes her sentence.

As expected, Florence sighs dramatically. "I can't imagine how hard that is, Amelia," she says. "But you need to start moving on. It's unhealthy to keep thinking about him."

Amelia sighs in aggravation, wishing just once that Florence would be more compassionate.

Florence continues to rant about how Amelia should move on, look for another shag, even consider drowning herself in the sweet release of cigarettes, drugs, fire whiskey—whatever could numb the pain. Advice was never her forte.

Suddenly, Amelia's head begins to throb, like something is dying to push through. She brushes it off, assuming that it's a headache brought on by Florence's apathy towards her situation. But the pressure builds up, and another thought enters her mind.

Maybe he's back. Maybe he's trying to talk to her. Maybe he's—

_I'm here. We need to talk, Millie._

Without explaining herself, and in the middle of Florence's unending and condescending rants, Amelia jumps up from the bench and darts towards the grand doors of the Great Hall. She hears Florence calling her name and can feel the eyes of dozens of students stalk her as she sprints out of the hall, but she doesn't care.

_Merlin, I forgot how much I hated Florence's shrill voice and ridiculously dimwitted advice._

Amelia releases a pleasant laugh through her heavy exhales, happy tears forming in her eyes as she dashes through the sun-kissed corridors to find a more private location.

_Slow down, darling. We have time._

"I don't want to risk losing you unexpectedly like last time," Amelia pants, desperate to find a secluded spot on the grounds where she could speak to Regulus in peace.

_You won't lose me._

As Amelia turns a corner, she spots a small door nestled in the corner of the wall—a closet. She grips the handle and throws the door open. The interior is dark, and the walls are tight; terrified that she'll lose him as quickly as he arrived, she subverts her fear of the dark, enters the closet, removes her wand from the pockets of her robe, and mutters a quick spell: " _Lumos._ " Even though the light is miniscule, offering little to no clear vision in the dark and damp closet, Amelia feels warm and safe through Regulus' presence in her mind.

"Thank Merlin you're back," she whispers, leaning her back against the wooden door.

_I never went anywhere. Not really._

"Where are you?" Amelia inquires, curiosity staining her impetuous question.

_I don't know how to answer that._

"Can't you try?" she begs.

_Of course. It's like... a limbo. A void. Everything is pitch black here. I'm not dead. But I'm also not alive. I can walk around, feel some things but not others. It's still all very confusing to me._

Amelia furrows her eyebrows in puzzlement, trying to make sense of Regulus' whereabouts. But it's something she's never heard of—in all her reading, studying, and inquisitive sessions in the library with volumes and volumes of books about all kinds of magic, never has Amelia stumbled upon something like this.

"Is there anything else?" she asks, eager to discern more about his current situation.

_Yes. I'm surrounded by rocks and total darkness, except for this one source of light: a fountain. And every time its light glows, I know that it's time to speak with you._

Amelia tries to wrap her head around what Regulus is explaining to her. "So, you can only talk to me when this fountain glows?"

_Yes. Believe me, Millie, I've tried talking to you even when it wasn't glowing. It never worked. If I could, I'd never bloody leave you alone._

She smiles, warmth growing in the pit of her stomach. She misses him more than anything. Would give anything to touch him one more time, see his charming face, fondle his curls with her fingers as they lay under the covers of her bed.

_You look so beautiful._

"You can see me?" Amelia gasps.

_Perfectly. You're exquisite._

She can't stop the tears. The way his soft voice rings in her mind brings about so much joy within her—more joy than she has felt in a long time.

As much as she wants to relish in his compliments for the rest of their time together, she refocuses her mind on the questions at hand, keen to uncover the magic that allowed them to speak.

"What else happens with the fountain?" she inquires.

_I submerge my head in the water, and if I stretch my neck and reach my head far down enough, my head meets this air bubble. And that's where you are. Where Hogwarts is. From there, it's just a matter of speaking to you._

Amelia is shocked and perplexed by the phenomenon of the fountain. She continues to search her mind in the hope that there is some clue stored within her memory—something that would lead her to understanding this magic more.

She resolves that she will make a trip to the library in the near future. An ardent desire to find out where he is, even save him if possible, takes over her body.

_You can't save me, darling. It's impossible._

Regulus is reading her mind. "Can you hear my thoughts?" Amelia asks.

 _Yes,_ he responds. _So don't go thinking about anything too naughty. Unless, of course, it has to do with me._

Amelia laughs again, the sound so foreign yet refreshing.

_In that case, daydream away my love._

"Always so cheeky, even in a completely different realm," Amelia jokes.

_I may have died, but I'm still the same old Regulus._

There's that word: died. Regulus died. Amelia has to remind herself of this.

"Can you... tell me what happened? That day when you left?" Amelia hesitantly asks.

There's a moment of silence, and Amelia fears that she's pushed him away again. She bites her nails, awaiting his response.

_Another time. I don't want to overwhelm you._

Amelia sighs. "It's more overwhelming to _not_ know, Regulus. I'm stuck in this feeling of uncertainty, this constant state of confusion and anger about what happened that day. Why you had to leave. Why you wouldn't tell me what was happening." Amelia pauses, afraid that she'll get carried away and scare him off. She takes a deep breath through her nose, regains her composure, and begins to speak again. "I just want to know what happened that day."

It takes a moment for Regulus to answer, but when he does, it's like music to Amelia's ears.

_I promise to tell you soon. Believe me. But I've been instructed to take this slow._

A new addition to the mystery. "Instructed by who?" Amelia asks.

Suddenly, the door of the closet flings open, the light from the outside beaming into the dark room. Shielding her eyes from the sunlight with her hands, Amelia makes out a dark silhouette through the spaces between her fingers in front of her; when her vision returns, she recognizes the professor before her.

"Amelia? What on earth are you doing in the closet?"

"Professor McGonagall, I—" Amelia starts, slowly realizing the detrimental impact of the interruption.

She can't sense him anymore. It's like he's been catapulted from her mind. Regulus is gone.

"Regulus?" Amelia calls out, staring at the shelf across from her, filled to the top with varying sized jars of liquids and plants.

There's no response.

"Regulus! Come back!" she calls out, feeling her knees turn to jelly and buckle under the immense pressure stemming from her heavy heart. She drops to the floor, her wand slipping out of her shaking hand, tears proliferating in her eyes and pouring down her hot cheeks. "No, no, no!" she cries.

"Ms. Hart!" McGonagall exclaims with immense concern, extending her arms to catch Amelia before she fully collides with the dusty floor. Amelia seeps into McGonagall's arm, sobbing uncontrollably at the sudden loss of Regulus.

She didn't realize how addicting his voice was, and how much of a tumultuous withdrawal she would undergo when he departed.

"Oh dear," McGonagall coos, caressing Amelia's weak arms with unparalleled empathy, one that only a motherly figure could exude. McGonagall had that aura about her—even for Slytherins. No matter how involved in the resistance movement she was, McGonagall always had room in her heart to care for each and every student, regardless of their affiliation. It's what made her so strong and such an impressive woman. "Amelia, what happened? Why are you calling for Regulus?" she asks.

"He... I... No... He was here... He was just here... Please... Regulus!" Amelia cries out, her words scattered and indecipherable between her heavy pants and distressed wails.

"Oh goodness," McGonagall sighs. "Come now, darling. Everything will be alright."

Amelia discerns through her frantic crying that nothing would be alright. Not unless she can be with Regulus again. Not until every inch of her body is covered in his embrace. Not until she could feel his breath against her again, inhale his scent, hear his melodious laugh up close and personal.

She sinks into McGonagall's arms, settling for that touch instead. But it's nowhere near the same. Nothing could compare to his arms around her, strong and loving beyond compare.

Amelia wonders if it will always be like this. If she is strong enough to endure such trauma. If _he_ is strong enough. If he is reacting the same way to losing her suddenly.

Her heart is tethered to his. And when hers aches, his does too.


	3. Chapter 3

There it is again. The throbbing pain. The strenuous breathing. The feeling that his lungs will collapse and flatten, rendering him dead—for good this time.

Regulus gasps as his head emerges from the cool water. His throat claws for oxygen and his head pounds relentlessly, forced to undergo another abrupt departure from Amelia, forced to drown all over again like the day he died, before finally being exposed to the oxygen his lungs desperately needed, pulling him back into the limbo.

His quaking hands grip the edge of the fountain, and he hangs his head just above the basin, his damp lockets treading the surface of the water. He pants, gasps loudly, and sucks in a gust of air. And his head, aching and pounding with the shift in pressure, is subsequently soothed by the soft coos of the woman on the other side of the fountain, just a few feet away.

He senses her turning the corner of the fountain, her hand delicately tracing the outline of the basin, and in a moment she is standing next to him, touching his shoulder, guiding his breath back to a normal pace through her sweet embrace. Regulus is finally able to control the unsteady pattern of inhaling.

"I... I wasn't done speaking with her," Regulus croaks, staring at his reflected image in the water, brought on by the single source of light from beneath the surface. "I thought you said I could have more time."

"Something must have happened," the woman sighs, stroking Regulus' shoulder in an effort to calm his anxious nerves. "You need to rest now."

"No," Regulus says, shaking his head. "Please, let me go back."

The woman sighs, closing her eyes and trying desperately to rescind the etching tears forming in her eyes. "It is far too dangerous to overuse this magic. We will try again soon."

Soon.

Regulus twists his head and glares at the woman, his cheeks flushed, and his teeth gritted. "Soon in this place feels like an eternity."

She inhales, wanting desperately to allow the boy to go back. She knows what it is like—to lose someone so suddenly, in the blink of an eye, without ever getting to properly say goodbye. Without closure, confirmation, or any sort of affirmation that they would be together again.

Young love. It can be so beautiful yet so maddening. It drives men and women to do such unthinkable things with the sole purpose of simply hearing one another's voice. Death rips through love like a hurricane, leaving the remnants scattered, torn, and displaced.

Her heart aches for Regulus. She knows the feeling.

"Amelia will still be there; I promise," she says gently, lowering her head and stroking the back of Regulus' wet head, her fingers caressing through his long, tangled black locks.

He glares at her, then shifts his expression to one of perplexity. "How do you know she'll still be there?"

The woman's breath becomes captive to her throat; she wants to tell Regulus everything. But for his safety and Amelia's, she cannot. She has to shelter this secret until the time is right.

"Trust me, Regulus," she starts, nodding her head and staring deeply into his worried eyes, "I know she will be safe."

-

Amelia sees darkness. Well, she doesn't see it so much as it is all that surrounds her. Her eyes are closed, but it feels like her body is shut off from the world as well. Exhausted, alone, depressed.

Yet in the orb of her ears she can faintly perceive mumbled voices from all directions, their low voices filling her drums and stirring her to wake up.

Her eyes flutter open to reveal a tall, stone ceiling, decorated with intricate designs etched into the foundation. There are plenty of sources of light, the two most prominent flagging her right and left from behind her. As she regains consciousness, she feels soft cotton sheets against her fingers; she wishes she could fall back asleep because, maybe then, Regulus would come back to her.

She begins to falter from her lucidity, repeating his name over and over again in her mind as a way to fall back asleep, be reunited with him, hear his voice—

"Amelia? Are you awake?"

It is the soft voice of Madame Pomfrey that draws her completely out of her sleep.

Amelia gives in to the light, opening her eyes and slowly turning her head to the right. Her eyes fall upon Pomfrey's delicate smile; Amelia herself tries to mirror the sentiment, but she is too tired and worn out to move her lips. Her insides ache with a loss so strong, she fears she might never be able to smile again.

"Yes," she answers in a crisp whisper. "What happened?"

"Oh, Ms. Hart," Amelia hears to her right; she turns her head and watches as McGonagall rushes to her side, sitting on a chair beside the bed and extending her hand to grasp Amelia's cold, limp fingers. "How are you feeling?"

Amelia shuffles underneath the covers, trying to lift herself up to a seated position. "My head hurts," she mutters, scrunching her eyes as she attempts to ignore the throbbing commotion in her mind.

McGonagall sighs, her worried eyes scanning the room then falling back on Amelia. She pats her hand twice, hoping the act of comfort will alleviate some of Amelia's uncertainty. But there are thoughts running through Amelia's mind that cannot be satiated by the sweet touch of a professor. The only thing that can truly assuage her pounding head is to hear his voice. His.

Amelia sees McGonagall exchange a look with Pomfrey—a look of trepidation and uneasiness. McGonagall opens her mouth to speak but ultimately falters; all that escapes her mouth is a small croak.

Amelia's chest tightens.

"Amelia, darling," McGonagall starts, overcoming the previous stutter. "We need to ask you something."

Amelia nods, consenting to McGonagall's question.

"When I discovered you in the closet..." she pauses, sighs, and continues, "you were calling out for Regulus." There is a pause. "Why were you calling out for him?"

Amelia's breath locks itself in her ribcage, refusing to move. She is forced to stare at McGonagall, not one emotion dancing upon her face. She is stoic and still.

"I..." she mutters, unsure of what to say, unsure whether to tell McGonagall what was happening. She fears above all else that if she told anyone, they would try to stop it somehow.

The magic made no sense. Regulus is dead. He couldn't be talking to her. He couldn't be stuck somewhere in a limbo, teetering between life and death.

No.

Regulus is dead.

How could she even begin to explain the phenomenon she was experiencing?

Amelia resigns that it is better to keep it a secret. She can't lose him. She can't lose his voice—not again. She just got him back. If Regulus should go away again...

She stops thinking about it, stops before the grief creeps its way up to sheathe every inch of her body in abject pain.

No one can know.

"Amelia..." McGonagall says, gripping her hand a little tighter. "We just want to make sure you are alright. We know that Regulus' death was... terribly difficult for you..."

Amelia cringes, desperate to retain a strong façade in front of McGonagall.

But what does it matter? She broke down in front of McGonagall earlier today. Why should it matter whether she does it again?

She inhales, fully prepared to let her tears flow like a raging waterfall.

A force within her stops it.

A tug, or sorts.

She considers it to be Regulus again, but it's not.

It's not his voice, but some other existential presence.

Everyone's eyes turn to the source of the sudden clanking of heels against the stone floor of the infirmary. Amelia beholds a breathtaking woman walking towards her bed. She is tall, dark, and stunningly beautiful; she wears a brown, plaid blazer above a white turtleneck, tucked into navy blue chinos. Everything external about this woman points to her immense confidence within—there is no question that she exudes an incredible amount of poise.

"I came as soon as I heard, Minerva," the woman says, approaching McGonagall's side and touching her shoulder lightly. Amelia wonders at the woman—she's seen her before, sitting at the Professor's table in the Great Hall. But Amelia was often distracted by other things while sitting at the table—too distracted to notice or care about much else around her.

Without Regulus, things seemed dull, colorless, and unappealing.

But around this woman—for some odd reason—Amelia slowly starts to feel revitalized. Like her presence substitutes for Regulus' somehow.

"Oh, Naomi, thank goodness you're here," McGonagall responds.

"Hello, Amelia," the woman says, smiling lightly and revealing her perfectly aligned and whitened teeth.

_Merlin, she's perfect._

"Hello," Amelia replies, slightly puzzled but willfully intrigued by the visitor.

"Amelia, this is Professor Bloom, the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher," McGonagall explains, gesturing her free hand towards the woman.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Amelia," Bloom says. "I'm sorry these are the circumstances we are meeting in. It should've ideally been in the classroom."

Amelia nods and smiles.

"I'd love to speak with you about what happened and offer my help, if that is alright with you," Bloom says.

"Now?" Amelia croaks. "I... I don't think I can..."

"It doesn't have to be now," Bloom reassures her, stretching her hand out and wrapping it around her cold, trembling one. "I just want to offer you my support. Whenever you are ready."

Amelia's brain flips over and over in her head. Turning, twisting, wringing her dry as she tries to ease the pounding in her head.

"Ladies, would you mind leaving Amelia and I alone for a brief moment?" Bloom asks, seating herself at the side of Amelia's bed and patting her hand comfortingly. It's as if Bloom knows that the presence of too many people is causing Amelia stress and discomfort. As if Amelia harbors a secret she is unwilling to confess.

And she does.

McGonagall and Pomfrey oblige, stepping away from the bed and pacing towards the door, whispering and discussing the possibilities of Amelia's condition.

Her condition. How could she possibly explain what was happening to her? How could she willfully admit that she was crazy? That she could hear the voice of her dead boyfriend speaking to her in her mind?

She feared two things: it was dark magic, or it was simply a figment of her imagination.

But Regulus had assured her over and over again that it wasn't her imagination. It was real.

Amelia doesn't know who to trust. Who she can tell that won't potentially want to end it for the sake of her sanity.

The truth is, Amelia knows she will go insane either way. She will drive herself mad if she continues this charade, waiting for Regulus to come back, yet she'll do the same if he goes away forever at the will of another—someone who knows her condition and wishes to stop it for whatever reason.

She can't lose him. Not all over again. It was too painful the first time—the thought of it happening again is too much to swallow.

Now, Amelia sits alone with Professor Bloom, who offers another wonderfully calming smile. Something about this woman soothes every inch of her trembling body. Amelia somehow feels more tranquil under her grasp than she has in a long time.

"I know we've just met," Bloom starts, "but I want you to know that I do understand your pain."

"You do?" Amelia asks.

"Yes." She pauses, blinks her eyes three times in a row, and brushes several strands of hair out of Amelia's weary face. "I've lost someone very important to me as well. And at a young age."

"How did you..." Amelia starts, wary to tread lightly. "How did you cope?"

Bloom sighs. "It wasn't easy. But that's why I'm here for you. I'd love for us to continue talking about this throughout the year. McGonagall has mentioned that you were calling out for Regulus in the closet..."

Amelia gulps. _Please don't ask._

"You don't have to explain right now—"

_Oh, thank Merlin._

"But we should discuss this phenomenon in the future."

That word. Phenomenon. Amelia had used it several times to describe what was happening with Regulus. And Bloom just repeated the word.

"Okay," Amelia concedes, offering Bloom a small, reassuring smile. "That would be nice."

Why Amelia felt the need to put her trust in a woman she just met, she was unsure. But there was something so enticing, so warming, so consoling about Professor Bloom that Amelia felt an arduous desire to be near her all the time.

"You just rest for a little longer, Amelia," Bloom says, standing up and patting her hand one more time. The removal of her skin causes a pang to erupt in Amelia's heart, like she's just lost another person.

But she hasn't, really.

Bloom stands right in front of her. She's right in front of her.

Regulus is in her mind. He speaks to her there.

Is she really alone, then? If Bloom remains in her eyesight, and Regulus' words echo in her head, how is it that she can feel so isolated?

She speaks in her head: _Regulus, please come back. Stay longer. I need you._

-

_Regulus, please come back. Stay longer. I need you._

Regulus hears Amelia's words through the fountain.

"I know, my love," he whispers, lowering his head into his lap as he sits upon the cold, wet rocks, the fountain right in front of him taunting him with the echoes of Amelia's thoughts. "I'll be back soon. I swear."


End file.
